


Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On

by KilgoreTrout



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Ableist Language, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, M/M, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 07:38:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12476608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KilgoreTrout/pseuds/KilgoreTrout
Summary: “What do you think of the sea?”“What?” Silver asks, his brow furrowing, “What the fuck are you talking about?”“I’m being serious,” the Captain says, coming up to stand next to Silver against the railing, “and I expect a serious answer. Did you like that painting?”Silver doesn’t answer.---Set pre-S3. Based very heavily on Pirate Ship Noah.





	Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On

**Author's Note:**

> See end notes for notes on tags. Set pre-S3, established (casual) relationship.

_“When they ask you why you love the rain, the ocean, the river, tell them it is because unlike the people who should have loved you better, the water was never afraid to touch you; even when you were at your most damaged and broken.”_

-Nikita Gill _, Water_

_“Our revels now are ended. These our actors,_  
As I foretold you, were all spirits and   
Are melted into air, into thin air:   
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,   
The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,   
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,   
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve   
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,   
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff   
As dreams are made on, and our little life   
Is rounded with a sleep.” 

-William Shakespeare, _The Tempest_

It’s cold, colder than Silver ever remembers being. He’s under the water, his dark curls floating gently around his head in a cruel approximation of a halo. He knows in theory that it should be dark down here, beneath the waves, but he can see just fine—he can see ships passing by overhead, their hulls throwing soft waves that dance around him, begging for his company. He sees the _Walrus_ among the ships, and feels a wash of panic seep through his bones as she sails further and further away. Silver raises his arms above his head, trying to swim after the _Walrus_ , but suddenly the waves are no longer gentle, but violent and dangerous, and he can’t move—it’s like something is keeping him anchored to this spot. He kicks out with his legs, but his left leg won’t budge, it’s like someone is pulling on it—he looks down, and sees glassy eyes staring back up at him. It’s a man—or what had once been a man, his flesh gnarled and pale from too many years spent under the water—and he is pulling at Silver’s leg, trying to drag him down. Silver kicks out again with his right leg, trying to dislodge the man, but suddenly there are more hands, more men, pulling on his leg, and he can’t get free, he can’t _move_ , and they are pulling him down, down away from the _Walrus_ , down away from his men—he has to get back. He cries out, but no sound will escape, he can feel himself drowning, his lungs filling with water as he cries out for someone, anyone, _Flint_ —

 

Silver is jolted awake by a particularly vengeful wave crashing into the side of the Spanish warship, and is immediately greeted by searing pain in what is left of his mangled left leg.

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Silver hisses, squeezing his eyes shut and slamming his head back against the wall of his makeshift window bed to try and balance out the pain.

 

Flint is by his side immediately, a cup of watered down rum in his hand and a look of poorly masked concern on his face. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to reach out, but he’s looking at Silver with something close enough to pity that it pisses Silver the _fuck_ off—he’s scared, he’s in pain, and unfortunately for Flint, lashing out is just about the only thing he can do from his prone position in the Captain’s cabin.

 

“Fuck off,” he growls, “I don’t need your pity or your help.”

 

Flint’s gaze darkens, but he doesn’t back off, “be that as it may,” he says carefully, “I’m on strict orders to keep you hydrated.”

 

Sliver snatches the cup from Flint’s grip, downing it in one go and throwing the empty cup across the room. Flint just sighs, making no attempt to retrieve the cup, and instead keeping those pitying eyes trained on Silver.

 

“Listen, _Captain_ —“ Silver starts, cutting himself off with a pained gasp as the waves rock the ship in such a way that causes his stump to collide painfully with the edge of his makeshift bed.

 

To his credit, Flint doesn’t move any closer to Silver. Instead, he stays perfectly still, which Silver is immeasurably grateful for.

 

“I fucking hate the ocean,” Silver grumbles, scrubbing a hand over his face as he tries to pull his stump into a more comfortable position.

 

Flint doesn’t quite grin, but it’s a near thing, “The men are saying the ocean is mourning for you,” he says, “they say she’s angry for you, and that’s why the waves are so harsh.”

 

Silver levels Flint with a glare, “It’s just fucking water.”

 

Flint, eternal with his patience, just says, “I think what they meant was—“

 

“I don’t give a _fuck_ what they _meant_ ,” Silver shouts, “I hate the _fucking_ ocean! It’s cold, it’s wet, and it keeps jostling my _fucking_ leg, which fucking _hurts_ , by the way, and—“

 

“I can get you something for the pain—“ Flint says.

 

“I don’t _want anything_ ,” Silver says, “I just want to be left the _fuck alone!_ Just because we’ve fucked a few times doesn’t mean I want your _fucking help!”_

Flint says nothing, his face shuttered completely. Instead, he walks over to his desk to fetch a clean cup and a bottle of rum, setting them down by Silver’s bed before leaving the cabin, slamming the door shut on his way out.

 

Silver sighs, rubbing his temples with his fingers, “ _Fuck_.”

 

The next time Silver wakes, the sea is calm in a way that means they’ve docked somewhere. From the window at the side of his makeshift bed, it looks a bit like Tortuga, but he can’t be sure. His leg is more of a dull throb than the sharp pain of before. It helps that he didn’t dream.

 

He knows he needs to apologize to Flint, that he was unfair. Unfortunately, Flint is nowhere to be seen, which means that Silver is going to have to go find him. There’s a false leg that Silver assumes is for him lying on Flint’s desk, so Silver grits his teeth and swings his leg and his stump over the side of the window seat serving as his bed. His right foot is steady under him, and he thinks he can do this—he can make this whole one-leg thing work. Then he stands up, and his balance seems to have gone the way of his left leg—brutally hacked off. He immediately falls to the floor, twisting gracelessly so as not to land on his left side, landing instead on his back.

 

A strangled sob escapes his lips as he pounds his fists into the wooden floor of the cabin. He has to do this. He _has to._ With a grimace, he hauls his shoulders up so that he’s sitting with his legs—leg—splayed out before him. With considerable effort, he begins to scoot himself towards Flint’s desk. It’s only a few feet’s distance, but it feels like an eternity before he reaches Flint’s chair, resting his forehead against the cool wood. It takes him another eternity to haul himself into the chair, and by that point there is a sheen of sweat covering his body, and his breath is coming in short bursts. He rests there for just a moment, his eyes skittering across the charts and logs and books littering Flint’s desk, before he reaches for the false leg. The metal is cold beneath his fingers, the leather stiff and unyielding.

 

Silver rolls up the left leg of his trousers, taking care not to rub the course fabric over his stump any more than strictly necessary. He sucks in a breath as he pulls back the fabric, getting his first good look at the mangled flesh hanging limply from his knee. He closes his eyes, a cold rush of fear fighting its way up from his stomach, and suddenly forgets how to breathe. He’s sucking in air, but it’s not enough—it’s too quick and too short, and he’s getting lightheaded, he can’t—

 

He digs his fingernails into the flesh of his palms until they bite, opening his eyes and focusing on Flint’s bookshelf. He breathes in, then out, slowly, slowly… His breath starts to come back in small waves, and he resolutely avoids looking at his stump, focusing instead on the air around it. His gaze is hazy and unfocused, but his movements are precise and intentional as he drags the false leg of the desk and sets it in place just in front of his stump. He takes two deep breaths before unceremoniously shoving his stump into the boot.

 

It hurts. He thinks it hurts more than the axe biting into his skin did, but he can’t be sure, he can’t summon the brain capacity to compare pain levels when all he can feel is _burning_.

 

It takes him a minute to realize that he’s crying, but once he does, he starts sobbing in earnest, waves of sorrow and anger and _pain_ crashing over him and leaving him choking and empty until he’s a shivering mess of dry sobs and little else. Before he can change his mind, Silver sucks in a breath and stands up, keeping as much pressure on his right leg as possible.

 

It doesn’t help.

 

Silver immediately crashes into the desk, sending a heap of logs tumbling to the floor. He grits his teeth and resolutely doesn’t cry out. Instead, he balls his hands into fists and pushes himself off the desk, standing as best he can. It takes him a minute, but he quickly gets used to the constant blades of pain shooting up his left leg, and takes a step around the desk. He keeps his gaze forward and takes a second step, then a third, then a fourth, and before he knows it he’s at the door of Flint’s cabin, then his hand is on the doorknob and he’s out on the deck.

 

Someone shouts at him from the helm, but the words don’t register, all he knows is he needs to get to shore, he needs to find Flint, and he needs to apologize.

 

He might be a bit delirious, because the next thing he knows, there’s sand beneath his foot and he’s asking De Groot if he’s seen the Captain anywhere.

 

“I think he said something about finding a bookstore,” De Groot says, “but should you really be walking around right now?”

 

Silver doesn’t hear him, he’s already halfway down the beach—the sooner he gets to Flint, the sooner he can sit down.

 --

Flint really can’t blame Silver for his anger; anyone would be at least a little testy after having their leg hacked off. That doesn’t mean he has to put up with it, though, which is how he finds himself wandering the streets of Tortuga in search of some semblance of a bookstore. The men on the beach pointed him in the general direction of the blacksmith, but he has yet to see a single book among the dingy shops offered by the port town.

 

He takes a step to turn around, thinking he’ll have better luck if he asks around more, and is startled by the splash of seawater that soaks his boot. Flint looks down to see that a large puddle has formed by his feet, and follows the stream of water to a small storefront, where the water seems to be pouring with fervor over the short steps leading up to the establishment. His eyes travel further up to see the words “Book Seller” emblazoned on a wooden sign hanging limply above the shop. He lets out a quiet sigh of gratitude, and takes a step towards the shop before noticing that the water is gone and his boot is dry. Blaming the harsh sun and lack of sleep, Flint brushes it off as a trick of the mind as he ducks into the shop.

 

The shop seems impossibly smaller now that he’s inside, due in no small part to the books stacked haphazardly against one of the walls. The opposite wall is home to a gaudy painting of a ship, and the back wall is thoroughly blocked from view by a large cabinet stuffed with papers and books. Directly in front of the cabinet is the man Flint assumes to be the shopkeeper sitting behind a relatively plain wooden desk. The shopkeeper looks up as Flint enters, but says nothing, leaving it to Flint to shuffle awkwardly and say, “I’m looking for a copy of Shakespeare’s _The Tempest_.”

 

The man sighs, pulling a heavy logbook from under his desk, “Give me a minute,” he says.

 

Flint nods, twirling his rings around his fingers as he waits. He takes in the large stack of books, his fingers itching to run along their spines and flip through their pages.

 

“Looks like I have a copy,” the man says, heaving himself out of his chair and rounding the desk to root through the stacks of books leaning against the wall. It’s then that Flint hears another splash, and he looks down to find a thin layer of water covering the dusty stone. The splashing continues, and he follows the sound to find two legs—one metal and one flesh—walking unsteadily towards him. Flint gapes at the water, which is slowly rising against Silver’s legs, nearly up to his ankle already.

 

“Don’t look at me like I’m a fucking invalid,” Silver says, no bite to his voice, “I can get around just fine.”

 

Flint’s eyes snap to Silver’s face, but the water keeps rising, lapping at Silver’s flesh like a hungry animal, “You can see it, right?” he asks.

 

Silver’s gaze twirls around the room, before he raises an eyebrow skeptically at Flint, “see what?”

 

“The water,” Flint says.

 

“What _water?_ ” Silver barks, stepping forward with his flesh leg, the water just about halfway up his calves.

 

Flint follows the water to its source; the painting. Water crashes out of the painting in violent waves, the whisper of the wind kissing his face as he steps forward to get a closer look. It’s a navel battle, two pirate ships firing at each other, one attempting to board the other. The closer he gets, the more real it seems—the clash of swords, the heat of gun powder, the sickly sweet smell of fresh blood spilling onto the deck of the ship—it’s almost like he’s there, right in the middle of it. He can hear the soft slap of the waves, the thump of boots on the deck; he can feel the spray of the ocean, the adrenaline of a fight. He needs to move, needs to take cover, to re-load his gun, find his _sword_ , where is his _sword—_

 

And the waves, _Christ_ , the waves are overwhelming in their entirety, threatening to swallow him up and devour him whole.

 

Then suddenly there is a cannon ball shrieking through the air straight towards him and all he can think is _run_ and _Silver_ , and he knows Silver said he could get around just fine, but he has to make sure he gets out of here, he has to make sure he’s _okay—_

Before he can think, he’s pushing Silver out of the way and bracing himself for impact, the water rising, rising, _rising_ as the cannonball gets closer, closer, _closer_ —

 --

The next thing Silver knows, he’s is flat on the floor, a jolt of pain surging through his leg as his false metal foot collides solidly with the rough wooden desk at the back of the shop. His eyes squeeze shut automatically as he bites back a shout, and when he opens them again Flint is—gone?

 

As soon as he gets his legs back under him and his breathing under control—which, to be honest, takes a generous handful of minutes—Silver rounds on the shopkeeper, who is somehow still digging through a lofty stack of books for whichever one Flint had asked for, “Where did he go?!” he demands, slapping the desk for emphasis.

 

The shopkeeper turns around, looking Silver up and down before saying, “So he was a pirate, huh? I figured, but you never can tell.”

 

“What the _fuck_ does that mean?” Silver asks.

 

“I accepted that painting as payment from a passing trader a long time ago,” the man says, nodding at the painting in question, “but he told me not to show it to pirates because it’s dangerous. At first I thought it was because pirates would steal it if they saw it, but I was wrong. One day three pirates visited this shop. They looked around for quite some time, and during that time one of them disappeared in front of that painting. The other two were convinced that he’d left the shop. They went outside but they couldn’t find him… but I found him. The man that had disappeared had become part of the painting.”

 

“Part of the—“ Silver echoes, turning to face the painting. His eyes immediately lock onto a flash of short copper hair right next to the mast of one of the ships, and sure enough there is Flint, his sword lifted high above his head as he seems to be in the middle of rushing one of the enemy pirates, “What the fuck…”

 

“It seems that somehow time flows differently inside that painting than in the real world,” the man continues, “When one day passes here, I don’t know how many years go by in that painting. The pirate I saw that day…. When I saw him later that night, he’d aged. He’d become an old man. The next morning, he was gone. It’s more than likely that your Captain will also disappear by tomorrow morning.”

 

“How do I get him back?” Silver asks, his eyes still fixed on Flint.

 

The man huffs a laugh, “I’ve had that painting going on 30 years now, and in all that time I’ve never seen a man come back out.”

 

Silver grits his teeth and moves so that he is standing directly in front of the painting, his hand skimming lightly over the water lapping at the hulls of the ships, “I’m a pirate, too,” he says to the painting, “let me in. “

 

“It won’t let you in if you have no interest in the sea,” the shopkeeper says, “you can’t fool it.”

 

“Interest I have,” Silver says, his fingers dancing along Flint’s blade and up his arm, “but it’s not in the sea.”

 

He closes his eyes, swaying forward slightly as he fills his mind with Flint—the jut of his chin, the constellations of freckles painted on his skin, the bristly copper of his hair. He sees his Captain’s back, broad and sturdy, his shoulders burdened by years of sorrow. He reaches out, his fingers just out of reach, just unable to brush against the worn leather of Flint’s jacket. He calls out—or he thinks he does—and Flint turns slowly, so slowly, towards him, his sword falling to his side as he turns, not quite facing Silver.

 

“Captain,” Silver whispers, focusing on the bright green of his eyes, “please, just _look at me_.”

 

Suddenly, Flint’s eyes lock on Silver’s, and then Silver is drowning, his lungs filling with water, and his leg, _god_ , his _leg_ —his leg feels like its on fire, like it’s being hacked open anew, like it’s being crushed by the weight of his sins, and he can’t _breathe_ —

 --

One second Flint is standing in a bookstore arguing with Silver, and the next he’s on the deck of an unfamiliar ship as pirates he doesn’t recognize rush at him from all sides. Before he can think about what he’s doing, he’s unsheathed his sword and has already cut down two men, figuring he’ll have time to ask questions once he gets out of this fight alive. He cuts down four more men, shooting a fifth in the head and a sixth in the heart. By the time the smoke clears, he’s surrounded by bloody, mangled corpses while a group of men begin to converge around him, giving him a wide berth.

 

“Stand down,” comes a booming voice. The men lower their swords, but do not sheath them, their stances remaining on-guard. A large man with a rough brown beard clad in what looks like a worn naval coat steps forward, giving Flint an assessing once over, “I don’t recognize you,” the man says, “but you’ve killed five of our enemies and only one of us, so as the Captain of this ship, I’d like to welcome you aboard. What’s your name, son?”

 

“Flint,” he grunts, wiping the blood from his sword with one of the dead men’s shirts.

 

“Well, Mr. _Flint_ —“ the Captain starts, quickly interrupted by the door leading below deck slamming open and a member of the crew saying,

 

“Hey boss, we found this fucker down in the hold,” the man shoves a sopping wet mess of a man forward, and it’s—Silver. Of course it is—before turning to the Captain, “doesn’t look like one of ours, what should we do with him?”

 

Silver spares a moment to glare at the man before fixing his gaze on Flint, his dark curls sticking haphazardly to his face—how did he get so _wet?—_

Flint’s thoughts are interrupted by the Captain sneering at Silver and saying, “This crew doesn’t take cowards who hide below deck in the midst of battle. Throw him overboard.”

 

The man who found Silver takes a step forward, grabbing his arm to ostensibly throw him over the side of this ship, before Flint says, “He’s with me,” and all eyes lock on him.

 

There’s a beat of absolute silence in which Flint considers his options—jump in the ocean after Silver and swim or try and fight his way through the rest of the ship’s crew—before the Captain lets out a booming laugh and motions for the man to let Silver go. As soon as he does, Silver hobbles sheepishly over to Flint, shooting daggers at his captor as he goes.

 

“Well then,” the Captain says, his gaze locked on Flint, “we’ve lost quite a few good men today, which means we’re shorthanded. I don’t suppose either of you know how to cook?”

 

Silver immediately grins, stifling a laugh, as his arm brushes against Flint’s in a way that almost seems accidental.

 

Flint grinds out a sharp, “Yes, sir,” before elbowing Silver in the ribs.

 

The next hour is a whirlwind of touring the ship, getting assigned watch duties, meeting crewmembers, and finding a dry shirt for Silver to change into. They end up in the crew’s sleeping quarters, where the ship’s quartermaster—who also happens to be the man who found Silver—points to two hammocks in the back and says, “Pretty sure these freed up today.”

 

Flint grunts in acknowledgment as the quartermaster turns to leave. Before he does, though, he says, “Captain wants to see you in his cabin before you start retire, don’t make him wait too long,” which earns another grunt from Flint.

 

As soon as the quartermaster leaves, Flint turns to Silver. He looks him over critically, his gaze settling on his false leg momentarily before snapping up to meet Silver’s eyes, “You should lie down,” he says, “walking around on that thing can’t be comfortable.”

 

Silver manages not to snap at Flint to mind his own business, but it’s a near thing. Instead, he leans against the wall of the ship and huffs, “It’s not that bad,” he says, “it doesn’t really hurt in this place.” Which wasn’t strictly true—he could still feel the dull ache of his stump coursing through is veins, but it was a far cry from the sharp, gnawing pain he normally felt. It was as if the pain was underwater—still there, but somehow blurred, subdued. Drowned.

 

“This place?” Flint asks.

 

Silver shrugs, “This ship, this ocean… none of it’s _real_ ,” he says, “So the pain’s not really real, either.”

 

Flint eyes him skeptically before grunting, “Real or not, we better settle in,” he says, “there’s no telling when we’ll make port, which means we have no way of knowing when we can meet back up with the _Walrus_ crew.”

 

“What?” Silver says, “No, no way, we are not settling in anywhere—we need to _leave._ Like, right now.”

 

“Now?” Flint scoffs, “Silver it’s nearly dark—we’re not going anywhere.”

 

“Yes we _are_ ,” Silver says, shoving off of the wall to move towards Flint, “we need to find a longboat and we need to get out of here. Now—before morning comes.”

 

“Silver,” Flint says, his voice low, “It’s too dangerous. Were not leaving, not tonight. We can talk about this in the morning.”

 

“ _No, we can’t_ ,” Silver hisses, “we need to leave _now_ —“

 

“Don’t underestimate the ocean—“

 

“I’m not underestimating _shit—_ “

 

“Silver—“

 

“ _Flint.”_

Flint sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Listen, it’s too dangerous to take a longboat out now,” he says, holding up his hand to silence Silver as he starts to protest, “but I’ll talk to the Captain about heading out tomorrow, alright?”

 

Silver grits his teeth and says nothing, which Flint takes as the closest to agreement he’s going to get.

 

“Stay here,” Flint continues, “get some rest, I’ll let you know how it goes.” He gives Silver a hard look, one that says _don’t fucking argue with me on this_ , before turning to walk back up the stairs to the Captain’s cabin. If he is at all surprised by the gentle _thud_ and _clang_ of Silver’s haphazard gait following him, he doesn’t show it, instead slowing his pace so that Silver doesn’t have to work quite so hard to catch up.

 

When they reach the Captain’s cabin, Flint knocks solidly on the door, casting his gaze sideways as Silver—who is resolutely _not_ looking at Flint—steps up beside him.

 

“Come in,” the Captain calls.

 

Flint pushes the door open, waiting for Silver to step through after him before carefully shutting it again and turning to face the Captain, who is sat behind an ornate wooden desk covered in sea charts, “You wanted to see us, Captain?”

 

The Captain nods slightly, his gaze fixed on the charts before him, “Come over here,” he says to Flint, beckoning him around the desk, “See if you can help me. I’m trying to plot a course to Jaya—here—“ he points to an island Flint doesn’t recognize, “but I’m having trouble deciding if it’s worth braving the harsher waters of this passage here, which would save us about a week of travel time, or if we should stick to the path we’re on and go around this way,” he says, skimming his fingers over a chart full of waters entirely foreign to Flint.

 

“And where are we now,” Flint asks, his eyes skimming the charts in an attempt to familiarize himself with the waters.

 

The Captain points to a small island at the far end of the map, “Sailed out from here a few weeks ago,” he says, skimming his fingers further into the depths of the ocean, “by my calculations we should be just about here.”

 

“And are there enough stores to last the voyage should you take the safer course?” Flint asks.

 

“There are, but I worry that the relative safety of these waters might dissuade merchant ships from sailing them for fear of, well, us,” the Captain says, “and we haven’t had a decent prize since we left Rubek—the men are getting anxious.”

 

Flint huffs a laugh, “I know a thing or two about that,” he says, “but I wouldn’t take the more dangerous route unless you’re sure there will be a prize—more danger with no payoff is less than ideal. A safer voyage with predicable prizes may be the better option here.”

 

The Captain hums, tapping his fingers along the course Flint has proposed, “It appears you may be right, Mr. Flint,” he says, “tell me, do you know any Spanish? I have a log here that I cannot seem to decipher—my quartermaster seems to think it’s written in Spanish, but no one knows enough to read it.”

 

Flint grins, “In fact, I do,” he says.

 

Silver, who has been entirely silent throughout the exchange, clears his throat loudly, “Flint,” he says, which earns him a noncommittal grunt from the man and a quirked eyebrow from the Captain, “I’m leaving.”

 

Silver waits a beat for some kind of a reaction, huffing in annoyance when it is clear he won’t get one. He turns on his heel—his real one—and pulls the door open, slamming it shut with as much force as he can muster on his way out. He crosses the deck in a whirlwind of annoyance and frustration, glaring at anyone who would dare approach him. As soon as he reaches the railing, he grips it tight, squeezing his eyes shut and taking a deep breath of salty air to steady himself.

 

God, he hates the _fucking_ ocean. He hates Flint for getting himself into this mess, and he hates _himself_ for fucking following him. He could have just left Flint here to rot away into nothingness. Flint wouldn’t care, hell, he might even be _happy_ about it, if his interaction with the Captain was anything to go by.

 

But where would that have left Silver? With no Captain and no leg, that’s where. Sure, the crew likes him, is indebted to him, whatever—but it’s not the crew that he stayed for, it’s not the crew that he gave up his fucking _leg_ for. Without Flint, he is nothing, nobody. He has to get him out of here—has to get _them_ out of here—together, or not at all.

 

Suddenly, he feels the presence of some fucking idiot who has the _gall_ to disturb his thoughts, and he rounds on them, ready to tear them a new one when he realizes that it’s—

 

The Captain.

 

“What the fuck do you want?” Silver spits, turning fully to face him and leaning back against the railing, “Where’s Flint?”

 

“In my cabin—I left him to translate the rest of my Spanish logs, he seemed rather keen on it,” the Captain says, chuckling slightly.

 

“Great,” Silver says, “So what the fuck do you want, then?”

 

The Captain regards him with a curious look before asking, “What do you think of the sea?”

 

“What?” Silver asks, his brow furrowing, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

 

“I’m being serious,” the Captain says, coming up to stand next to Silver against the railing, “and I expect a serious answer. Did you like that painting?”

 

Silver doesn’t answer.

 

“Like you, I’m one of the handful of people aboard this ship that come from the outside,” the Captain says, “I’ve lived many years in this place. This ship only summons those who have strong feelings for the sea. It picks up worthy pirates from oceans all over the world… You could say this place is a pirate’s utopia. So what the fuck are you doing here?” At that, Silver jumps, his grip on the railing tightening, as the Captain says, “From what I’ve seen, you don’t belong here. To this painting, you’re an uninvited guest. For your body’s sake, you should leave immediately.”

 

“Oh, I fully intend to,” Silver says, “but I’m not leaving here without Flint. Tell me how to get out, and we’ll gladly leave.”

 

“If it’s just you, you can go back any time, but it’s too late for Mr. Flint,” the Captain says, “give up on him.” At that, he pushes off the railing and starts to head back to his cabin, back to Flint.

 

“Fuck you,” Silver spits, “I’m not leaving without—“

 

Without warning, he feels water creeping up his left leg—or where his left leg should have been. It laps at his ankle, his calf—he looks down, and the deck is filled with water, harsh waves rushing towards him. He looks back up, and he sees the painting. It’s hanging there, suspended in midair right in the middle of the deck, and water is gushing out of it, spilling onto the deck and over his feet. It’s up to his knees, and Silver starts running, trying to get around the painting, trying to get _away_ , but he can’t move. His left leg feels suffocated and heavy, like an anchor pulling him down. He trips over himself, and his head goes under the water. He can’t breathe, and all he can see is the _painting_ looming closer and closer until it’s engulfing his field of vision. He tries to cry out, but his voice is swallowed by the waves, and the painting is pulling him in, dragging him out of this world, away from _Flint_. He screws his eyes shut, and he reaches out, trying to reach for anything, _anything_ that will keep him here—

 

He feels warm fingers curling around his own, and his eyes snap open as he looks up to see Flint, looking down at him with barely veiled concern. The water is gone, and Silver is dry, “What happened?” Silver asks.

 

“You tripped,” Flint says, not letting go of Silver’s hand.

 

Silver’s grip tightens into something more intentional as he pulls himself up. However, instead of releasing Flint’s hand once he’s righted himself, he laces their fingers together and tugs Flint after him as he all but runs down the stairs. He rushes down the hallway to the sleeping quarters, the galley, the gun deck, looking for some kind of _sign_ some kind of _way out_ —Flint, too his credit, says nothing, merely following his apparently crazed companion on his rapid-fire tour of the ship.

 

By the time they reach the hold, Silver is frustrated and out of breath, and he takes it out on the ship, punching the wall in annoyance.

 

“Hey,” Flint says gently, squeezing his hand, “what’s going on with you?”

 

“Even if I find the exit,” Silver mutters, mostly to himself, “there’s not guarantee we can both get out…”

 

“I don’t really understand what you’re talking about,” Flint says, “but I talked to the Captain, and he’s agreed to let us leave first thing in the morning. You have to trust me on this—the sea is too dangerous to traverse at night with just a longboat.”

 

Silver visibly deflates, the tension in his shoulders melting away as he untangles his fingers from Flint’s and sags against the wall, “Okay,” he says. He takes stock of their surroundings—the hold is extremely well supplied, with barrels of gunpowder and rum lining the bulk of the perimeter and crates of food stores stacked neatly in the center. The corner farthest from the door is home to a large stack of unused hammocks, some in need of serious mending. Silver hobbles over to the stack and flops down, “let’s stay here for the night,” he says, patting the space next to him as he starts to unbuckle his false leg.

 

Flint shuffles awkwardly, glancing towards the door as if trying to plan his escape, “The rest of the crew will wonder where we are…” he says.

 

Silver levels him with a look that’s not quite a glare and says, “You know this isn’t real, right?”

 

Flint’s eyebrows furrow, and he regards Silver silently for a beat before saying, “Yes…”

 

“Then what does it matter?” Silver says, setting his false leg aside and lying down on the hammocks, “Let them wonder.”

 

It takes Flint another long moment of awkward shuffling before he sinks down to lie next to Silver, doing his best to maintain an appropriate amount of distance between them—although what constituted an appropriate amount of distance between two people who had fucked but not recently was something of a mystery to him. His efforts are largely wasted, though, when he feels Silver’s fingers catch on his.

 

“Look,” Silver says, brushing his fingers lightly against Flint’s, “I know that this isn’t what we are to each other, but I just—I need to touch you. I need to know that you’re still here. Can I—is that okay?”

 

Flint stretches his arm out in invitation, “Come here, then,” he says.

 

Silver sighs in relief, rolling over so that his entire body is plastered against Flint’s, his head resting against Flint’s chest while his arm snakes around Flint’s waist. Flint hasn’t shared a bed with another man since Thomas, and while this may not technically be a bed, he still doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Eventually, his fingers find a home in Silvers curls, and he rubs softly at Silver’s scalp. The sea is calm tonight, and it rocks them gently back and forth, the waves soothing in their soft rhythm.

 

Despite this, Silver is panicking just a little, realizing a touch too late that it might be weird to ask a man you’ve had a handful of casual sexual encounters with to essentially cuddle with you on a pile of hammocks in the hold of an unfamiliar ship. Especially when those sexual encounters took place _before_ you lost a good chunk of your leg and became a horribly disfigured monster, and there was a good chance the man would likely never want to sleep with you again. But he can’t very well say any of that to Flint, so he pushes it to the back of his mind and focuses instead on the steady beat of Flint’s heart pressed up against his ear.

 

Silver is not feeling particularly poetic, but if he _was_ he’d say that it sounds like the ocean—like every beat of Flint’s heart is a wave crashing against the shore. And Silver may hate the ocean, but he could get used to this—to the warmth of Flint against him—his soft breath ruffling his hair and his fingers rubbing soothing patterns into his scalp. He falls asleep listening to the waves crashing against Flint’s ribcage.

 --

Silver wakes up to the feeling of water dragging at the space where his left leg should be, pulling him down. He flails wildly, smacking the hammocks in his rush to sit up, wrenching his eyes open. It’s dry, but—

 

Flint is gone.

 

“Shit,” he says, scrambling to put his false leg back on. He stands, the dull ache of pain settling into his bones, and he gets caught up in the hammocks in his rush to get out of the hold, “ _fuck—_ “ It takes him a good minute to get free, the metal foot of his false leg tangling in the ropes used to string up the hammocks. As soon as he does, he races out of the hold and up the stairs. He’s momentarily blinded by the dawn over the waves as he steps out on deck, but he sees Flint immediately. He’s standing in the middle of the deck with the Captain, his back to Silver. Flint doesn’t look at him, doesn’t even acknowledge that he just fucking _ran up the stairs_ to find him, but the Captain beckons him over. As soon as he steps up to the two men, he understands why Flint might be distracted—there is a huge whirlpool of debris right there, in the middle of the ocean. As he watches, he sees a mast, then two, then three rise to the surface of the water. They’re bent and broken, but they drag with them a ship—the ship from yesterday, the ship that _sank_ yesterday. The ship rises out of the water like a ghost, and as soon as she’s settled, the debris littering the water starts flying up to greet her, patching holes in the hull, fixing the rigging of the sails. Silver’s jaw hangs open as the debris starts to fix their own ship, as well—cannon balls fly back to their cannons and barrels, the wood they’ve broken patching itself immediately. Silver has to duck out of the way to avoid getting hit with splinters that fly past him to repair the stairs leading to the stern.

 

“Who are you?” He asks the Captain.

 

The Captain spares him a glance before returning his gaze to the ship that has somehow _un-sunk itself_ , “I’m the Captain of this ship,” he says.

 

“And what the fuck just happened?” Silver asks.

 

“The day is rewinding,” the Captain says.

 

“Which means what exactly?” Silver asks.

 

“That ship will attack us again today,” the Captain says, “Everyday, we engage them in battle, steal their treasure, and drink to our success. Some of the time, this ship loses and we sink, so be careful of dying. When the morning comes, the reset doesn’t work for people that come from the outside—if you die, that’s it. As you spend time here, you’ll age, and in due time you’ll die, either from battle or age.”

 

Silver scoffs, “Did you not say that this was a pirate’s utopia?” he says, “That sounds a hell of a lot more like purgatory to me.”

 

Finally, _finally_ , Flint looks at Silver, his eyes curious and his mouth set in a hard line.

 

“I also said you should hurry up at leave this place,” the Captain says, “and yet you’re still here.”

 

“I’m not leaving here without Flint,” Silver says, more to Flint than to the Captain.

 

“Suit yourself,” the Captain says, turning away from the two men, “but as long as you’re on my ship, you’ve got duties to attend to, so hop to it.”

 

Silver turns to Flint, “You left,” he says.

 

Flint just shrugs, “I figured it wouldn’t do to have them wondering where we were, so I came up when the sun rose.”

 

“I didn’t know where you were,” Silver says, stepping in closer, “you could have woken me up.”

 

Flint’s eyebrows screw up in confusion, “Why is this so important to you?” he asks.

 

“Because I—“ Silver is cut off by a loud,

 

“HEY!” from the quartermaster, who shouts, “Breakfast isn’t gonna cook itself!”

 

Flint sighs, “Come on,” he says, running a hand down Silver’s bicep to grip his elbow and lead him across the deck and down the stairs.

 

Silver shoves him off as soon as they reach the galley, mumbling a half-hearted, “I can walk by myself.”

 

Flint takes quick stock of the food stores, noting an alarming amount of potatoes and little else. It’s been a while since he’s had to cook, but he figures that the two of them together can make something work. Well… Flint can make something work, at least. Soup is always a good option—and nearly impossible to fuck up—so he gets to work, filling a large pot with water and lighting the wood under the stove.

 

“What do you want me to do?” Silver asks, hovering just this side of too close to Flint’s shoulder.

 

“Why don’t you peel some potatoes while I chop onions?” Flint suggests, handing Silver one of the alarmingly sharp knives resting on the table.

 

Silver just nods, taking the knife and dragging a stool over to the nearest barrel of potatoes. They work in a steady silence for a while, Silver managing to do a mediocre job of peeling potatoes while Flint does his best to put some semblance of flavor into his soup. They’ve settled into a comfortable rhythm when Silver says, “You like it here.”

 

“What was that?” Flint asks.

 

“This ship,” Silver says, “you like it here. You like not being the Captain, not having those responsibilities. You haven’t told me what happened in Charles Town yet.”

 

Flint sets his knife down and turns to face Silver, who has finished with the potatoes and is now fidgeting with the skins, running the thin slices through his fingers, “You’re right,” he says eventually, “I like it here. I don’t have to worry about what comes next, about what the consequences of my actions will be.”

 

“This isn’t… real, though,” Silver says, “you know that, right? This ocean is fake.”

 

Flint merely shrugs, “Who’s to say that this world isn’t real and the world we’re used to is the fake one?” He says, taking Silver’s potatoes and tossing them in the pot, “Living the same day over and over seems much less cruel then everything I’ve been through already, and to be honest I don’t really give a shit. Fighting the same battle every day is _easy_ , I don’t have to fight a war, I don’t have to deal with Nassau, I don’t have to worry about _losing anyone else_ —”

 

“What about me?” Silver says.

 

“What?”

 

“What about me?” Silver says again, “I can't stay here—if you want to keep living this one day over and over again, you’ll have to do it alone.”

 

“What do you mean,” Flint says, crossing the distance between them to stand in front of Silver, “why can’t you stay with me?”

 

Silver looks up at Flint, dropping his potato skins in order to grab at Flint’s hands, “I hate the ocean,” he says, “I don't want to be a pirate, and this place knows that. It’s not gonna let me stay here forever.”

 

“You—“ Flint’s eyebrows knit together in confusion, “You gave up your leg to stay with us, to protect the crew, what to you mean you don’t want to be a pirate?”

 

“I didn’t—“ Silver’s grip on Flint’s hands tightens, “I didn’t do it for them, I did it for me, and it has nothing to do with being a _pirate_ —“

 

“Then why would you—“

 

“I can’t—“

 

“What do you mean _for you—_ “

 

“Can you just shut the _fuck up_ for a second?” Silver snaps, “I don’t give a _fuck_ about the ocean, and I don’t give a _fuck_ about being a pirate, I just—I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to stay with—with you. I didn’t—I found somewhere I can belong with the crew, with… you, and I didn’t want to lose that.” He’s no longer looking at Flint, his eyes darting across the floor in an attempt to avoid Flint’s knowing gaze.

 

Flint doesn’t say anything. Instead, he wraps his arms around Silver’s shoulders in a loose embrace. Silver visibly deflates, burying his face in Flint’s stomach and bringing his hands around to run up and down his flank. Silver breathes him in, relishing in once again hearing the soft waves of Flint’s heartbeat.

 

They stay like this until Flint’s soup starts to boil over, broth sizzling over the sides of the pot, “Shit,” Flint curses, gently disentangling himself to douse the fire and move the pot, “why don’t you grab the bowls and help me serve this,” he says to Silver.

 

Silver goes easily, and they once again settle into an easy rhythm, elbows brushing lightly against each other as they work to feed the crew.

 

The crew is only about twenty men, a fraction of what Silver is used to on the _Walrus_ —or rather, the warship, as it may be—so it isn’t long before Flint and Silver are able to sit down to their own breakfast.

 

They eat in relative silence, the conversations around them serving as both a loud enough excuse not to talk to each other and white noise to drown out their own thoughts.

 

It doesn’t really work—not for Silver, at least. He’s considerably more restless than usual, bouncing his left leg up and down under the table. It just—it feels so _wrong_. He knows it should hurt, and it does to an extent, but it’s so muted that it feels like he’s in a dream, floating underwater. He keeps tapping it against the ground, trying to _feel_ something, even just one sharp jolt of pain, to make this feel real. He’s gone from bouncing his leg to essentially stomping his metal foot on the ground when he hears a splash.

 

He jumps up from the table, scraping his stool back in his haste to get away from the water, which—is gone. The floor is dryer than a ship has any right being, and he’s left standing there like an idiot. The rest of the crew pays him no mind, but Flint is staring at him, something akin to concern in his eyes.

 

Silver takes a deep breath and turns around, waiting for the telltale sound of Flint sliding his stool back to stand before walking out of the galley and down the stairs, taking slow and deliberate steps down to the hold, Flint following him step for step. He waits for Flint to gently close the heavy wooden door of the hold before he turns around to face him, closing the distance between them in three easy strides to wrap his arms around Flint’s shoulders and bury his face in his neck.

 

Flint waits a beat before hugging him back, his hands rubbing circles into the small of his back as he waits for Silver to speak. When he does, it’s barely a whisper, “This place knows that I hate the ocean,” he says, “but it let me in anyway because I demanded it. Because it saw that everything you feel for the sea I feel for you and _more_ , and that must have been enough, because here I am. I don’t love the ocean, but I might be able to love _you_. You could be my ocean, if you wanted.”

 

Flint is at a loss for what to say, so he just says the first thing that comes to mind, which is, “The ocean is dangerous.”

 

Silver chuckles into Flint’s neck, “I’m aware of that, thanks,” he says, “You still haven’t told me about Charles Town, but I know that two people left the ship and only one returned, so I can make some assumptions. I know that there’s no replacing what you’ve lost, and I know that you’ve lost so much more than you’re willing to tell me, but I… I want to be a part of your world, if you’ll let me. I want to be a part of your ocean.”

 

Flint pulls back, and for a minute Silver thinks he’s going to get angry, to yell at Silver and march right out of his life forever. Instead, he cups Silver’s face in his hands and kisses him so gently that Silver doesn’t register that it’s even happening for an embarrassingly long moment. Flint has kissed Silver before, but never like this—every kiss they’ve shared thus far has been heated and urgent, bordering on violent. This is easy and simple and _gentle_ , and Silver has no idea what to do with it, but he knows he wants more, so he melts into Flint, bringing his hands up to clutch weakly at the back of his neck.

 

Flint nips softly at Silver’s bottom lip, causing him to gasp into the shared space between their mouths. Flint takes the opportunity to lick into silver’s mouth, pressing their bodies impossibly closer together as he does. Silver groans into the kiss, his nails scraping at the short auburn hair on Flint’s scalp. He pushes Flint back against the door and relishes in the feeling of Flint’s strong hands sliding down his neck and over his shoulders, his chest, his back, _everywhere_ , until suddenly they’re clutching at his ass and he’s grinding his hips into Flint’s, feeling the hard line of his cock through his trousers. _Fuck_ , he needs—

 

“Take me to bed,” Silver says, rubbing his cheek against Flint’s before pressing another kiss to his lips.

 

Flint merely grunts in response, nipping lightly at the tip of Silver’s nose before hoisting him up by his ass and carrying him to their makeshift bed of hammocks from the night before.

 

Silver breaks out in giggles in response to Flint’s brutish show of strength, kissing every inch of skin he can reach—which really only amounts to the top of Flint’s head—before he is gently and unceremoniously dropped onto the hammocks. Before he even has a chance to settle in, Flint is on him, nuzzling his neck and pressing open-mouthed kisses to his skin, and Silver just keeps right on giggling. Flint pulls back slightly to level him with what Silver supposes was meant to be a glare, but is filled with far too much fondness to engender any real sense of danger. Silver responds by pulling Flint back up to his mouth and kissing him deeply, reveling in the soft groan that leaves his lips when Silver raises his knee slightly to press against Flint’s cock.

 

Flint ruts against Silver’s knee, relishing in the friction it provides and the way Silver’s hands feel as they slide down his back to cup his ass through his trousers.

 

Silver groans into Flint’s mouth, “I didn’t think you’d want this anymore,” he says, his thumbs teasing the waistband of Flint’s trousers.

 

“Want what?” Flint gasps, bringing one hand up to tangle in Silver’s hair.

 

Silver huffs a laugh, “Me,” he says, and Flint goes rigidly still. He looks down at Silver with hard eyes, the hand in his hair gripping in such a way that’s just this side of painful.

 

“Because of your leg?” Flint asks. Silver just nods, a blush creeping into his cheeks at the realization of what he was admitting.

 

Slowly, Flint untangles his fingers and sits back, regarding Silver with a porous mix of shock and determination. He locks eyes with Silver, silently demanding his full attention as he runs his hands slowly, so _fucking slowly_ , down Silver’s left leg, stopping at the hem of his trousers. Wordlessly, he rolls the hem up, watching Silver carefully for any sign of discomfort.

 

Silver sucks in a breath as the fabric is rolled up far enough to bare his red, mottled skin. He wants to protest, to tell Flint to stop, but he doesn’t. Instead, he does his best to stay still and keeps his eyes locked on Flint, meeting his challenge head-on. Flint’s fingers have found the buckle of his false leg, and he lingers there for a moment, waiting for Silver’s permission, which comes in the form of a small nod.

 

Silver screws his eyes shut as Flint unbuckles his false leg and slides it off in one smooth motion, and then gasps at shock of cold water that hits his stump. It feels like his left leg is being pulled underwater, cold hands grasping at the skin of his nonexistent calf and dragging him down, _down_ —

 

“Hey,” Flint says, rubbing soft circles into the skin above his stump, “you okay?”

 

Silver nods, forcing his eyes open to focus on Flint, and just like that the water is gone. He lets out a slow breath, “I’m okay,” Silver says, “sorry.”

 

“Don’t apologize,” Flint says, rubbing his stubble lightly against Silver’s knee, “just focus on me,” he illustrates his point by pressing a trail of kisses up and down Silver’s stump, being uncharacteristically gentle with the fragile skin. At the same time, he’s rubbing large circles into the muscles of his thigh. Flint lifts his leg slightly to get access to more of Silver’s skin, and it all becomes too much, too gentle; Flint presses a soft kiss to the inside of his knee, wrenching a strangled sob from Silver’s lips—

 

He squeezes his eyes shut again, “Please,” he says, and he doesn’t know what he’s asking for, but he knows that he needs something, anything, _more—_

Suddenly, Flint’s hands are back at his waistband, and he’s pulling at Silver’s trousers insistently. Silver raises his hips slightly, and then his hard cock is out, leaking slightly against his stomach as Flint flings his trousers across the hold. Silver reaches up to pull at his shirt, and barely manages to get it over his head before Flint is back on him, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses up his left leg, sucking a mark into the junction between his hip and his thigh. Flint doesn’t stop there, moving fluidly to press kisses to the base of his cock and down to his balls, his beard rubbing exquisitely against his shaft. Silver squirms, his hands bracing on Flint’s shoulders as he tries to pull the man onto his cock.

 

“Flint,” He whines, “ _please_ —“

 

“James,” Flint says, his head coming up so that his words ghost over the tip of Silver’s cock, “call me James.”

 

“ _James,_ ” Silver whispers, reveling in the name he’s never been allowed to speak like this, and then he’s crying out as Flint sucks the head of Silver’s cock into his mouth, his tongue teasing at the foreskin. Flint groans around his cock, pressing his tongue against the vein on the underside of Silver’s shaft as he takes him down further, wrapping his hand around the length he can’t quite get in his mouth.

 

“Fuck,” Silver gasps, running his hands over Flint’s scalp as he bobs up and down, wishing his copper hair was still long enough to pull on, “you’re so fucking good at this—“ he cuts himself off with a groan as Flint takes him down further, swallowing around Silver’s length as his nose buries itself in the course hairs at the base of Silver’s cock.

 

Flint’s hands roam Silver’s body as he sucks on his cock, one hand coming back to roll his balls between his fingers while the other returns to Silver’s stump, rubbing circles into the sensitive skin above his wound. It’s too much, and it’s been too long, and Silver doesn’t want to come yet, he needs _more_ , he needs—

 

“I need to fuck you,” Silver breathes, scratching at Flint’s scalp, “James, _please_ , let me fuck you, I need—“

 

Flint moans around his cock, pulling off with an obscene pop to meet Silver’s eyes, “Yes,” he groans, “Fuck, _yes_.”

 

Flint sits back on his heels, and that’s when Silver notes with absolute horror that Flint is still fully dressed, his cock tenting his trousers in a way that looks borderline painful. This is, of course, entirely unacceptable, so Silver lurches forward after him, pulling his shirt over his head as Flint tries unsuccessfully to undo his trouser laces.

 

Finally, _finally_ , Flint manages to shuffle out of his trousers, and then he’s straddling Silvers hips. Flint shoves three of his fingers into his mouth, coating them liberally with spit before reaching behind himself to rub at his hole. He circles the rim perfunctorily before sliding one finger in up to the first knuckle, his eyes squeezing shut as he lets out a shaky breath.

 

“ _God_ ,” Silver says, running his hands up and down Flint’s strong thighs, “you’re so fucking gorgeous like this, did you know that?”

 

Flint just grunts, thrusting his finger in and out in short bursts as he tries to relax, his eyes still squeezed shut.

 

“Hey,” Silver says, biting his nails into Flint’s thighs, “look at me.”

 

Flint does, meeting Silver’s eyes as he slides a second finger in beside the first, scissoring them as best he can at the awkward angle, “ _John_ ,” he says, and Silver nearly comes just from that. Instead, he sucks on two of his fingers and wraps his other hand around Flint’s cock, giving it a few short pulls before sliding one finger into Flint, relishing in the fact that they’re basically holding hands as their fingers move together to loosen Flint in preparation for Silver’s cock.

 

Flint’s thighs are trembling and his cock is positively _leaking_ by the time he decides he loose enough, and he has to take a moment to steady his breathing, pulling his and Silver’s tangled fingers out of his ass as he settles back on his haunches, Silver’s cock nestled between his cheeks.

 

“So fucking gorgeous,” Silver whispers reverently, running his hands up and down Flint’s sides, his thumbs reaching out to circle his nipples before sliding further down to grip his ass.

 

Flint grins, pressing a sloppy kiss to the corner of Silver’s mouth before lifting himself up, reaching back behind himself to guide Silver’s cock—still wet from his mouth—to his hole before lowering himself back down. He goes slowly, mindful of the fact that spit is not an ideal lubricant, taking Silver in inch by agonizing inch.

 

By the time he’s fully seated, Silver is breathing hard, his hips twitching with the need to thrust up into Flint, “ _James_ ,” he pleads, “Are you—“

 

Flint nods, “Move,” he breathes, and Silver does. He slams up into Flint, causing him to throw his head back and cry out. Flint meets him with equal fervor, raising himself up and dropping back down, relishing in the feeling of fullness as he bounces on Silver’s cock.

 

“ _God_ ,” Silver groans, slamming his hips up to meet Flint every time, “It’s like you were fucking made for this, _fuck—_ I’m not going to last— _James—_ “

 

“Touch me,” Flint groans, “John, please—“ Silver complies immediately, wrapping his hand loosely around Flint’s cock so he can fuck into it with every thrust. Flint cries out at that, his rhythm becoming erratic with short, halting thrusts, and then he’s coming all over Silver’s stomach. Silver is right behind him, grabbing Flint’s hips to thrust up into him once, twice, and then he’s gone—

 

The whole ship shakes with the force of their combined orgasms. Silver could swear he hears cannons go off as he spills inside of Flint, and he feels the water again, pulling at his leg, and he has to get them out of here before the water—

 

“What the _fuck_ —“ Flint shouts, leaping off of Silver, “John, the ship—“

 

The water is rushing in through a hole in the wall furthest from them, rapidly filling the hold, and it’s not… going away—

 

“Water?” Silver asks, his mind struggling to catch up.

 

“Yes, _water_ ,” Flint insists, “the ship is _sinking_ , we need to leave—“

 

“You can see it?” Silver asks, scrambling to get his false leg back on as Flint hops back into his trousers, “The water?”

 

“Why wouldn’t I be able to _see it?_ ” Flint says, giving Silver an incredulous look as he tosses him his shirt and trousers from where they were thrown earlier, “it’s up to my ankles, of course I can—“

 

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Silver whispers, shrugging on his shirt.

 

That’s when a cannon ball crashes through the hull to shriek past Silver’s head, landing solidly in one of the barrels of rum. Flint regards the cannon ball and the new hole it’s created in silent shock before wrenching Silver up by his elbow and saying, “We need to leave. _Now._ ” Flint has managed to get his boots back on, but not his shirt, and Silver is considerably more exposed in just his shirt, which is barely long enough to cover his cock, but there’s no _time_ —

 

There’s a loud creak that seems to embrace the whole ship, and then Flint is lacing their fingers together and pulling Silver out of the hold and down the narrow hallway to the stairs. There’s another creak, and suddenly they’re falling forward, the ship tilting into the waves, and the water is crashing through the hallway, pulling at their legs. They slam against the doorway to the stairs, but it’s blocked by something on the other side. Flint pushes against the door with all his strength, slamming his shoulder against it to get them out, but it doesn’t give more than an inch—

 

The water is up to their bellies now, and it’s rising fast, barreling into the sinking ship from all sides, “ _Fuck_ ,” Flint says, slamming his fist against the door, “We need to go back, we need to find a hole big enough for us to fit through, and we need to swim—“

 

“James,” Silver whispers, “We’re not going to make it out of this.”

 

“Yes we _are,_ ” Flint snaps, “We’ll find a way off this ship and we’ll be _fine_ , we just need—“

 

“Do you trust me?” Silver asks, tightening his grip on Flint’s hand.

 

“What?” Flint says, his eyes locking with Silver’s.

 

“I can get us out of this,” Silver says, a hint of desperation in his voice, “I mean, I think I can—but you have to trust me, just this once. I know you have no reason to, but please, _please_ , just trust me—“

 

“What do we do?” Flint asks, turning to face Silver. The water is up to their chests now, and it won’t be long before they’re completely under.

 

“Focus on me,” Silver says, bringing his hands up to cup Flint’s face, “Forget everything that’s happening, just focus only on me.”

 

Flint reels back slightly, “We’re in a _sinking ship_ ,” he all but shouts, “What the fuck is that going to do—“

 

“ _Please_ ,” Silver says, “you have to trust me on this, just focus on me—“

 

“Silver—“

 

“ _James_ ,” Silver pleads, “don’t think of the ship, don’t think of the ocean, don’t think of _anything_ —just focus on me—“

 

Flint closes his eyes and lets out a shaky breath. He doesn’t— _shouldn’t_ trust Silver, he knows that, he does, but fuck if he doesn’t _want to_. He wants to just stop breathing, think of Silver, and sink into the cold, dark water. Maybe there he’d finally find some peace. When he opens his eyes again, he sees the water rushing at them from the end of the hallway, and this is it, if they don’t move now they’ll surely drown.

 

Flint mirrors Silver and brings his hands up to cup his cheeks, running his thumb along his lower lip before repeating the motion with his tongue. Silver sighs into the kiss, opening his mouth for Flint, and Flint focuses on nothing but the feel of Silver’s lips on his, on Silver’s tongue sliding over his own, on the feel of Silver’s fingers running along his cheekbones—

 

That’s when the water hits them, forcing their bodies impossibly closer, plastering them against the door. They’re completely underwater now, and the light around them is fading away into nothingness, and Flint so desperately wants to _move_ , but instead he just wraps his arms around Silver and holds on, anchoring himself to the other man.

Without warning, they crash into a hard stone floor, and it’s…. dry—Flint doesn’t think he’s ever felt so dry in his _life,_ and—they’re… in the bookstore?

 

“Welcome back,” comes the familiar voice of the shopkeeper, “took me a good ten minutes to find that book you were looking for—you’ve got good timing.”

 

Silver is sprawled out on top of Flint, entirely unconscious. His dark curls hide his face, but Flint can see that his lips are curled in pain. Looking down, Flint sees a good bit of blood seeping out from where his false leg meets his stump, which fills him with a surprising amount of relief—not because of the pain Silver must be in, but because of the unflinching knowledge that if Silver is hurting then this must be _real_. That said, the relief is quickly and entirely overcome by a sense of guilt and concern.

 

“How much do I owe you?” He asks the shopkeeper, gently untangling himself from Silver and rolling him onto his back. He thinks briefly about taking off the false leg, but he knows Silver would rather die than let the men see his stump, so logic unfortunately takes a back seat to pride.

 

“No charge,” the shopkeeper says, handing Flint the book, “Never though I’d see someone come back _out_ of that painting. Consider that payment enough.”

 

Flint nods his head in thanks, shoving the book in the waistband of his trousers before gathering his barelegged companion off the floor and into his arms as best he can. Silver will likely murder him (or try to) for the treatment, but he is not conscious enough to protest, and Flint certainly isn’t going to tell him about it when he wakes up.

 

Still, he avoids the more populated roads on his way back to the ship, glaring any unfortunate soul who crosses his path into silence. It would not do to have stories of the dreaded Captain Flint carrying his one-legged, half-naked quartermaster around like a newlywed bride spreading through the Bahamas.

 

Billy, however, certainly gets a kick out of it when they return.

 -- 

Silver wakes to a splitting headache that feels almost pleasurable compared to the searing pain coursing through his stump. He groans, forcing his eyes open and throwing his head back to collide gently with the hard wood of the window frame in Flint’s cabin. The waves lap gently at the sides of the warship—they’re moving. Flint is by his side instantly, which really _should_ piss Silver off, but he’s holding out a cup of watered down rum, and Silver is far too thirsty to protest.

 

He downs the rum in three long gulps, handing the cup back to Flint when he’s done, their fingers brushing slightly in a way that feels far to intentional to be coincidence, “Fuck,” he groans, “I had the weirdest fucking dream…”

 

Flint merely hums in response, setting the cup on his desk before returning to Silver’s side, this time holding out a thin book, “Here,” he says, “It’ll take us a few days to reach Nassau, thought you might like something to read in the meantime.”

 

Silver regards the book thoughtfully, “ _The Tempest_?” He says, “I don’t know that I’m much of a Shakespeare man.”

 

“ _’Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows_ ,’” Flint says.

 

“What?” Silver asks.

 

“Act two, scene two,” Flint says, “It really is an excellent play.” He kisses Silver then, just a gentle brush of lips, and he tastes like the ocean. Silver may hate the ocean, but he doesn’t hate Flint, and while he may not know what to do with that yet, he knows that his love for Flint is like the ocean—dark, demanding, _cold._ And just like the ocean, his love for Flint has always been there, and will always remain a part of Silver for as long as he lives.

 

_Fin._

**Author's Note:**

> I have not posted a fic online since before LiveJournal died, so this is very exciting. I also have not finished much, but that's a different story lmao. 
> 
> So this was very VERY heavily based on a One Piece Zoro/Sanji doujinshi by Ichioku/Yamato called Pirate Ship Noah, which I absolutely adore. If anyone is interested, hit me up and I can probably find a working link to the scanlation somewhere. 
> 
> Tag Notes:
> 
> Canon Typical Violence/Graphic Depictions of Violence: I feel like it's not terrible, but better to tag just in case. We've got one not-too-graphic fight scene and Silver dealing with his leg a lot. 
> 
> Ableist Language: Silver calling himself a monster because of his leg and being generally too hard on himself.


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